Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(109)

14





Katy





A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat of Ivan’s car and listening to the rumble of the engine as we go God-knows-where. Trying to lead me by the hand out of the club had worn out Ivan’s patience pretty fast, so I’d ended up being carried out in his arms all the way to the car.

And he still won’t tell me where we’re going.

“Now, now, Katy,” he chides after I ask him for what feels like the tenth time, “what good is the blindfold if you know?”

“Fine, fine,” I pout, crossing my arms, “but seriously, Ivan, I’m not dressed for anywhere fancy, okay?” And I’m not exaggerating. I’m wearing tight-fitting jeans, a red spaghetti-strap top with black lace, and a black knitted cardigan since all I was expecting out of tonight was a routine evening at the club.

After what feels like an hour drive, we pull up someplace where the sounds of traffic tell me we’re well into the city.

“Ivan,” I start as he helps me out of the car before sweeping me off my feet again, “seriously, this is really sweet and romantic but—”

“But nothing.”

He plucks the knot of the blindfold, letting it slide off easily and blinding me with the afternoon sunlight, but as my vision comes back to me and Ivan sets me back on my feet, I see what I’ve been led to.

We’re in Central Park, and there’s a horse and carriage standing expectantly in front of us. My jaw drops, more out of incredulity than anything else.

Oh. My. God. This has got to be the corniest thing in the entire world.

But despite myself, I’m covering a laughing smile with my hand as Ivan cocks his head at me, his heavy brow furrowing.

“You don’t like it.”

“No no, Ivan, I love it!” I laugh and wrap my arms around him, blushing half out of embarrassment and half out of how absurdly cute this otherwise terrifying man was trying to be. It was like he was studying romance movies just to figure out how to surprise me. Me! The girl that is technically his sex slave, but who he treats like a Goddess.

A few minutes later, the two of us are being wheeled around Central Park in the back of a carriage pulled like a couple of tourists fresh off the boat. Rather, Ivan is sitting in the carriage, and I’m squeezed into the space left over by his broad frame, despite his efforts to make room for me.

Sometime after I relinquish myself to being half-wrapped around his body in the seat to get comfortable, my hand is held in his. I look up at him with thoughtful eyes, and I see him looking out on the sights of the park with a genuine smile.

“So,” I finally ask, “why the park, of all places? Doesn’t seem like your usual style.”

He thinks for a moment before responding, “In truth, I’ve never seen the place, for all the time I’ve spent around the city.” He gives me a light squeeze and adds, “I wanted to share something new to me with you.”

To natives, the park isn’t much more than a place to be well clear of by sundown, but seeing someone genuinely taken with the place is kind of refreshing, in its own odd way. I look at him searchingly, like I’m trying to read into him as his dark blue eyes meet mine quizzically.

“Something on your mind?”

“It’s just...I can’t figure you out, Ivan,” I almost whisper, even as I hug his torso tight. “You do things like this for me that are so sweet I don’t even know what to do, but then…” I twirl a lock of my hair around a finger, knowing I’m treading into dangerous territory. The stiff feeling of his arm around me tells me as much, but I press on, nonetheless. “Sometimes I think about what you do when you’re away. Even when we’re together sometimes, I notice when you leave the room to take some phone call, speaking in Russian. And those nights when you slip out of bed when you think I’m sleeping.”

I’m looking up at him now, and his eyes are locked on mine with a warning gaze.

“Do not ask me about my work, Katy,” he says evenly.

“I don’t mean it like that,” I breathe, putting a hand up to his face. He takes my wrist in his hand, and we’re frozen there for a moment before I continue. “Where does this side of you come from, Ivan?” I finally let out.

Ivan’s expression slowly begins to soften. A few months ago, this line of questioning would have earned me a sharp reprimand, but now, he lets go of my hand and lets it finish its course to his face, and I touch the hardened man’s cheek as if it were a statue.

He closes his eyes a moment, then looks back out into the trees, where a few families are enjoying scattered picnics or walks in the fresh springtime air.